


Blue Monday

by PunkHazard



Series: Kent [3]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, internet scams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: "Alana," Kepler interrupts, straightening up and using his knee to turn her chair to face him. He doesn't call her by her first name very often, and the disappointment in his tone is impossible to ignore. "What," he drawls, "did I say about professional boundaries?""That I should have them," she mumbles back.
Relationships: Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell
Series: Kent [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1276967
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	Blue Monday

She should be used to it by now, but Maxwell still tenses up when Kepler slips into the office, sidestepping Jacobi at the door, and stopping in front of her desk. Three months into her tenure with the SI-5, she's acutely aware of how intimidated she probably _should_ have been at their first meeting, where she'd snapped at and condescended to him several times in quick succession, but he'd seemed like such a normal (if persistent) recruiter at the time. 

Now, having seen Kepler on the job, watched him approach a target with that amiable smile and easy-going swagger only to lure them into a dark room and garrote them with his eight hundred dollar tie, Maxwell considers herself lucky that he'd wanted her on the team more than Goddard wanted their competition dead.

"Maxwell," he says, voice low, "a word?"

He looks perturbed; it must be serious. She sits up in her seat, hands folded across the table as she sets down her tablet. "Sir?"

Kepler leans in. He half-sits on the edge of her desk, arms crossing over his chest, and glances around the office that she shares with Daniel as if there's anyone else in Goddard Futuristics likely to wander in. Finally, he asks, "You have any idea what's going on with Jacobi? He seems off."

Maxwell stares at him.

"Doctor?"

"Excuse me?"

He frowns. "You don't think so?" 

Kepler's not one for office gossip, though Maxwell's been surprised more than once at how much he seems to _know_ about everyone they run across. Other department heads, their secretaries, the scientists-- he asks after family, pets, ongoing projects. He can make small talk for hours, cataloguing everything he's told and giving absolutely nothing in return. 'Learn this,' he'd said to Maxwell, early on, when he caught her staring. Jacobi didn't make it an everyday habit, but on assignments, Maxwell's seen him do the same.

It was after she started at Goddard that Maxwell met the seven or so secretaries Kepler had asked to contact her. Two were part of other departments that he'd charmed into making the calls for him, and the others were SI operatives. Maybe he knew she'd be flattered to learn that he really pulled out all the stops to goad her into a face-to-face meeting.

Maybe it's-- a test. Another test, anyway, just like the one he'd posed when they first met. Maybe she's supposed to have noticed something about Jacobi the last few days, so she wracks her brain for anything out of the ordinary. Cautiously, she meets his eyes. "He's been a little quiet, but other than that? I don't think so."

"You think he's seeing someone?" Kepler's expression darkens, brows drawing together in irritation. "Trouble in paradise? Wouldn't be the first time."

"No," Maxwell answers. "He wouldn't have had time to come out for drinks last week if he were, and we did that right before your last assignment together. Unless he met someone in Uzbekistan?"

"No. We were in and out." Kepler makes a frustrated sound, a growl from deep in his throat. "Got back two days ago, and he seemed fine then."

The thought occurs to her, right then, that maybe this is _real_. Jacobi's been working with Kepler for two years; it shouldn't be absurd to think that Kepler might actually be concerned for his subordinate. The idea that her colleague, one who had declared firmly that he had her back within minutes of meeting her, might be in trouble sets her nerves on edge. "Do you think something happened?" 

"He did mention ordering a set of Civil War bayonets a couple times," Kepler mutters, "but hasn't brought it up since we got in. Maybe they didn't live up to his expectations."

Jacobi _had_ been pretty excited about those bayonets, and Kepler's right that they haven't heard any updates about it. It hadn't occurred to her that that could be some kind of indicator. "Where do you buy Civil War bayonets?" Maxwell asks.

"I didn't ask. Craigslist?"

Maxwell purses her lips. She closes whatever project she was working on, and pulls up the browser. A few clicks later and she lands on a war memorabilia forum-- specifically, the sales page. In the time it takes her to find it, Kepler had made his way around the desk to read over her shoulder. "He'd be a lot easier to find on this forum if there weren't so many explosives enthusiasts on it," Maxwell grumbles under her breath.

"How many people are even active on this site?"

"Three hundred regular users, but over a thousand registered." She runs a quick search, and clicks into the newest topic in the results list. "Here we go, Civil War bayonets."

"This user joined three weeks ago," Kepler says, tapping the screen under their username, "and has two posts. Looks a little sketchy."

"The photos don't look staged, maybe they ended up here looking for a buyer." Maxwell squints at the monitor. "Can you tell if they're fake?"

"I'm not an expert on Civil War bayonets."

She looks over her shoulder at him, skeptical.

"And," he adds, visibly annoyed, "I don't have time to become one in the half hour left of our lunch break. Besides, these were good enough for Jacobi to want them, so let's assume the pictures check out. Pull up the metadata."

"No edits or conversions," Maxwell observes, both of them scanning the information.

Kepler frowns, then fishes his phone out of his pocket when it vibrates against his leg. "Maybe it's time to try something else," he murmurs, and by the time he looks back at Maxwell's screen, she's already on another page. Specifically, the e-mail inbox of one djnitro82@_____.com. He scans the first three lines (Explosives Enthusiast newsletter, promotion from a chemical supplier, car insurance scam), and taps Maxwell on the shoulder. "Is that Jacobi's personal e-mail account?" 

Maxwell seems to consider the question for a second. 

"Yes," she says, when she decides that there's no hedging around this one.

"Doctor." Kepler's arms fold across the back of her seat, pressing up against her shoulders as his weight bears down. "Maxwell," he says, almost purring into her ear, "when did you get access to Jacobi's e-mail?" 

"I was just--"

His gaze flickers to the other tab open in her browser. " _And_ his bank account?"

"I just thought maybe if he ever forgot his credentials and needed to get back in--"

"Alana," Kepler interrupts, straightening up and using his knee to turn her chair to face him. He doesn't call her by her first name very often, and the disappointment in his tone is impossible to ignore. Clearly, that was a rhetorical question. "What," he drawls, "did I say about professional boundaries?"

"That I should have them," she mumbles back. 

" _And_?"

Maxwell presses her lips together, staring up at him with her brows drawn. Her cheeks puff out in annoyance, but she says nothing, waiting on him to decide the course of their next move. 

The problem with all this, Kepler considers, is that he _knows_ that face. At one time in his life he'd lived with both a cat and a dog, a duo of troublemakers as destructive as his current subordinates. The dog would be suitably cowed with a stern word, unable to meet his eyes. _'I know I ate your sandwich that you were saving for dinner after your very long day at work,'_ is what it meant, _'and I'm really sorry.'_

The cat would simply sit. Watching him.

' _I know you're mad,_ ' that look said, _'but you shouldn't be, because I just did what any reasonable cat would do with a sandwich on the table.'_

"Listen," he sighs, dragging a hand down his face, "next time you think about logging into the personal accounts of _anyone_ under _my command_ , you come to me first. You don't go forward without my say-so." At her mutinous look, he holds up one hand to stop her. "You _respect_ your colleagues' privacy, and I make sure they do the same for you."

"As if any of them could get past my encryptions," she retorts.

" _Maxwell_." This time, there's gravel in the register of his voice, low and rough, his expression severe. Then smoother, sweeter: "This... is a matter... of trust. SI is a unit. We don't. Do this. To each other."

Her eyes narrow. "Without your say-so." 

"Without my say-so."

Maxwell's jaw juts forward as she looks down at her knees. "I understand."

"But since you've already got it up," he continues, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze as he turns her seat back around, "we might as well go ahead." 

Her posture straightens immediately, and she refocuses on her monitor. "Here's the correspondence," she says. Then, "Oh, this is _clearly_ a throwaway. Two outgoing messages saying that Jacobi didn't receive the goods. No responses."

"You need an actual e-mail in order to create a throwaway. Find out what it is."

"Traced it to a neighborhood in California," she reports. "We're not going out there, are we?"

"Nah. How much were those bayonets supposed to be?"

"Let me see." Maxwell tabs back to the e-mails, and she shakes her head, blinking many times before she says, "Oh my _god_."

"What?"

"Thirteen thousand."

Kepler scoffs. "You mean thirteen hundred."

Turning her monitor to show him the page with Jacobi's latest bank transactions, Maxwell says, "I really don't."

"Jacobi... what the hell?"

"That's _crazy_."

"Didn't you spend twenty grand on a laptop once?" Kepler asks, nudging her on the shoulder.

" _That's_ different. I do a lot of work on that laptop."

"The fact that you two aren't putting any money into retirement or savings aside," he mutters, bringing their conversation back to the topic at hand, "can you get into this person's bank account and transfer the money back?"

Maxwell pulls up more details on the transaction, then opens up another new tab to research the company listed. "I'll need a few days to cross-reference some more information," she says, clicking to an 'About' page written entirely in Cyrillic. "They did the transfer through a foreign third-party system because Jacobi needs a crash course in internet security."

"What information?"

"An address, full name, birthday, social security... Well, I can get the other stuff pretty easily with just a name, since we've already narrowed down the neighborhood."

"There was a phone number on the forum, wasn't there?"

"Sure, but it's almost definitely a burner."

"Pull it up."

Maxwell makes a face at Kepler when he dials the number and puts the phone up to his ear. Calling sets her nerves on edge, but clearly Kepler's used to it. She can hear the dull ringing through the earpiece, then the voice of someone answering.

"Hey there," Kepler says, putting his phone on speaker. "My name's Derek Wolfram. I saw your post on this forum for war memorabilia that I lurk on, and I was wondering if those bayonets were still for sale. I'm not too late, am I? No? Perfect. I'm definitely interested."

Whoever's on the other line doesn't miss a beat, rattling off a bunch of specifications. They don't mean anything to Maxwell, but Kepler makes an understanding sound. "Right," he answers. "Right, I've never seen the bridge of a Civil War bayonet in such good condition before. It's a real pretty piece. You ask me, it belongs in a museum."

Kepler winks at Maxwell when he sees her staring at him again, this time wide-eyed, taking in every detail of the exchange. When the conversation gets around to price, Kepler haggles him down from fifteen thousand (must be getting cocky after stringing Jacobi along) to eight. When the seller mentions the site that Jacobi had paid through, Kepler asks him to wait a moment while he accesses it. What he actually does his check his watch and count down ten seconds.

"Oh," he says after a suitable amount of time has passed, "I'm trying to sign up, but I must be doing something wrong. Computers aren't really my area of expertise. The problem? It doesn't seem to accept my bank information." A pause. "Oh? Ohhh. Which banks don't allow it? No... no... wait. That's the one."

 _What is this?_ Maxwell mouths at him, but Kepler gestures for her to be quiet.

"Shame," he says, sounding _very_ disappointed. "I don't have an account anywhere else. Sure you can't accept payment in another form? Check? Courier? Wire's a bit confusing, but I can probably work it out."

A brief pause, then the magic word: 'Wire.'

The seller gives Kepler a routing number, an account number, and the name of a company. Kepler pulls a pen and a notepad from his pocket, jotting down the information and ripping out the page. He hands the sheet to Maxwell, a crooked grin on his face at her dumbfounded expression.

"I thought you weren't an expert on Civil War bayonets," she says.

"Bayonets haven't changed much in the last two centuries," Kepler answers. "Looks like they're with Wells Fargo. It's notoriously pretty lax about account openings."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Maxwell tells him, already typing, "since this account exists regardless of whether or not it's attached to an actual client."

"You have what you need?"

"Yes sir."

"Then I'll leave you to it." He's not sure if she even hears him, already engrossed in the new task, but he claps her on the back just as Jacobi slinks back into the office. Daniel doesn't greet either of them before he trudges back to his desk and sits behind it, barely looking up when Kepler leaves.

* * *

Kepler waits for Jacobi to clock out for the day (exactly on time, instead of lingering the extra hour or two he usually does) before he approaches Maxwell again. "You missed lunch," he says, plunking a Gatorade on her desk beside her keyboard. "Let's grab a bite before you head out."

"I put his money back," Maxwell tells him, tiredly pushing her seat back and standing to stretch her legs, her shoulders. "It took a while since I didn't want to brute-force it. Cleaned out the accounts and returned whatever I could with what was left."

"I figured."

Maxwell looks up from shutting down her workstation. "What do you mean?"

"My phone's been going nuts since about two hours ago." Kepler holds it up so she can see the screen, the wall of notifications saying 'Hello sir, I didn't receive the money' and 'Hello what account will you be sending your payment from' and, more recently, 'who are you? i will report you to the authorities'. Also in the mix: 'WHAT DID YOU DO?' and 'RETURN MY MONEY NOW'.

"Sorry," says Maxwell, not sounding apologetic at all, "I forgot to update you."

"There's a place around the corner that makes a great cubano," Kepler tells her, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Let's go."

The two guys behind the counter shout greetings as Kepler steps inside a bare-bones little restaurant, jarringly lit by flourescents. There's a self-serve counter and a few plastic chairs and tables scattered around the space. "Usual?" one of them asks, already pulling ingredients from a fridge. "Cubano and a black coffee?"

"And a medianoche for my friend here." Kepler steps up to the counter to fistbump both cooks, leaning on the glass despite the tacky layer of grease coating every surface. "Maxwell," he says, tipping his head toward her, "Gustavo, Sebastian. These guys have gotten me through some long days."

Gustavo claps him sympathetically on the shoulder. "Got another all-nighter?"

"Ey," says Sebastian, setting a styrofoam cup of coffee in front of Kepler, "I feel that."

They get the sandwiches after about ten minutes-- way too much time to produce a couple sandwiches, but the ability to draw people into a conversation and hold them in it sometimes comes with the drawback of distracting them from their jobs. Warren Kepler in the office is an entirely different character from the Kepler who's ordering after-work cubanos, stiff military decorum ceded to rapid-fire jokes that skirt the line between funny and mean. Gustavo and Sebastian respond in kind, raucous laughter filling up the restaurant until Kepler finally receives his food and whisks Maxwell out. 

"Major Kepler?" she asks, unwrapping her sandwich as they walk back to the Goddard building. Having spent the last three months almost exclusively in the company of the SI-5, she's no stranger to new and exciting food experiences. Jacobi's cheese fixation aside, the two of them had great taste, and her sandwich is no exception. Skipping lunch was _not_ her best idea, and she takes a ravenous bite after the preliminary nibble.

"Yes, Dr. Maxwell?" Kepler's still got his coffee in hand, the bag containing his sandwich hanging off his elbow, swinging slightly as they walk. There's a mild, disaffected smirk on his face as he watches her demolish her food.

"How did you know he'd give you the wire information?" Maxwell asks between bites, the paper crinkling in her hands as she half-jogs to keep up with Kepler's longer stride.

"They use the third-party site to avoid being traced in any meaningful way," Kepler answers. "I dropped a few hints that I'm no good with computers, meaning I wouldn't be able to do anything even if I had their account information. A wire would've been a fast, low-risk option for them, _if_ they were dealing with anyone else."

"And," she adds, "how do you know so much about internet scammers?"

"Aw, well, a couple years ago I fell in with a crew when Mr. Cutter asked me to audit Goddard's Paranormal Division, and--"

"Goddard has a paranormal division?"

"Not anymore." Kepler grins at her. "Turns out they were mostly getting scammed."

Maxwell almost chokes on her sandwich, but she washes down the mouthful with a swig of the coffee Kepler passes her. He walks her to the garage, to the fleet of self-driving cars that chauffeur employees to and from work, and they pause in front of a powder-blue sedan. One of many perks of working at Goddard Futuristics: your own personal AI driver. "I spoofed an e-mail from Jacobi's bank to let him know he's clear," she tells him, gauging his expression. "Do you think that's overkill?"

"No, that's the right call. Good work today." Kepler turns to the car next, rapping twice on the window to prompt it to roll down. The computer inside takes a few seconds to wake from sleep mode, and Kepler grins as he pulls the door open. "Get her home safe, Caduceus. Good night, Dr. Maxwell."

Caduceus revs his engine. 'Will do, Major Kepler!' he chirps.

Maxwell pulls the door shut herself, but not before a polite, "See you tomorrow, sir," as he heads back into the building. Turning to the screen on the dashboard, Maxwell leans in to swipe her ID card over the reader. "Hi, Caduceus."

'Heading home, Dr. Maxwell?'

"Yes please." 

'We will arrive in fifteen minutes.' Caduceus backs smoothly out of the the parking space. 'How was your day?' he asks. 

"Good." It's the rote answer, and while Maxwell often feels a kick of cognitive dissonance for giving that answer after a particularly _bad_ day, today is not one of those times. She rolls up the windows and sinks into the cool leather of her seat. "How was yours?" 

Caduceus says nothing for about three seconds-- an eternity in AI processing speeds. People rarely ask AIs how their day had gone, and he's a fairly recent addition to the fleet. 

"It was fine," he says, and doesn't ask any more questions.

* * *

The next morning, Jacobi is back to his usual sarcastic and annoying self. The first thing he says to her is, 'Maxwell, you would not _believe_ what happened,' before he sits himself on her desk and launches into a story that Maxwell has to pretend to be surprised to hear. 

Kepler arrives not long after Jacobi, a dossier under his arm, and he pauses in the doorway of their office to listen. Maxwell catches his eye over Jacobi's shoulder, only half-listening and making sounds at all the appropriate places in Daniel's telling of how the bank had successfully recovered thirteen thousand dollars he was convinced he'd never see again. 

Kepler presses one finger to his lips, smiling, corners of his eyes crinkled in a silent laugh. Then, stepping fully into the office, he clears his throat. 

Jacobi cuts himself off mid-sentence, hopping off Maxwell's desk to face Kepler as he approaches. "Morning sir," he says. Eyes drifting to the folder under his arm, he seems to straighten, shoulders squaring. "That a new assignment?"

"Just some preliminary reading. If it goes down, it goes down in three weeks."

"Copy that."

"How's progress on that new launcher?" Kepler asks, deceptively mild, but Maxwell can see him observing Jacobi closely. He's a man who likes consistency, likes routine, likes the way Jacobi's attuned to his presence and command, and who notices when things are not quite as they should be. 

"Hit a wall a couple days ago over the flight trajectory," Jacobi rattles off, oblivious to the meaningful look Kepler and Maxwell exchange, "but I'm gonna try something I thought of on the commute this morning. Still need to run it through a few simulations, but everything's on track."

"Maxwell?"

"R&D wants me to look over Tyche's code before they initialize her. I should be done by the end of today, and then I've got some work from the cybersecurity division."

"Alright." Kepler nods at them both. "I expect progress reports on my desk at lunch. And," he continues before either of them can complain about it, "there's a Special Projects meeting at three in the afternoon that both of you will attend."

Jacobi goes back to his desk before he can be excoriated for wasting company time and Kepler retreats to his office, shutting the door only most of the way behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> lissen... i love these weirdos


End file.
